


Not for Chronicles

by JellaMontel



Series: Сокровище сердца [2]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, Slash, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JellaMontel/pseuds/JellaMontel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not for Chronicles. Part 1 of the series "Treasure of the Heart".<br/>Translated to English by Mrs.Underhill.</p><p>Written for the Hobbitfest prompt IV-48 on www.diary.ru.<br/>Dwalin/Thorin, capture by goblins. Great Goblin wants to start with Ori, Thorin steps forward instead. He gets stripped and whipped until Gandalf saves them. Then movie timeline is followed, with h/c with Dwalin.<br/>Includes S/M history of Thorin and Dwalin.</p><p>(Translation is uncomplete, I really don't know, if it will be continued or not.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Не для хроник](https://archiveofourown.org/works/727463) by [JellaMontel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JellaMontel/pseuds/JellaMontel). 



**Part 1**

"Dwalin," King-With-No-Mountain feels his friend's disappointment without even looking at him. Well-deserved disappointment, he has to admit. "If you think that I'm wrong, say so. Can't find words - hit me. But don't just judge in silence, I have enough of polite trash around me, even without you".

Dwalin thinks on it for two minutes, then grunts. Has Thorin just called Dwalin’s and his own family trash, and all of their people too?  
"All right." Firm hand grabs Thorin by the shoulder, turns him around, and then a flying fist wipes out conscience in a flash of pain.

* * *

"Was I really that much of an asshole?" asks Thorin after coming to.

Dwalin looks away. He's a bit worried how easy it was to knock his friend out, and how pleasurable. Yes, Thorin was asking for it for a long time, but he should be enjoying the feeling of justice, not the sight of his friend's body spread artfully on the floor. Besides, since recently Thorin is not just his friend, but also his King.  
"Just wanted to check if Your Majesty was ready for me to use your Majesty’s offer."

Thorin shrugs. "Just spare the face. My Majesty is not ready to scare subjects with shiners."

Dwalin grabs him by the chin and studies closely. His fist is heavy, and the warning could've come too late. But the beard, even cut short in mourning, is thick enough to hide the damage. As for the rest... Straight nose, bright eyes, clean arcs of eyebrows - he wouldn't want or dare to spoil such beauty, would be almost sacrilege.  
"I'll be careful."

* * *

Dwalin doesn't abuse his right to convincingly show the King when he's wrong or just being a dick. This privilege is too precious, too valuable to spend on trifle matters, and the risk that Thorin will finally tire from insolence of his comrade is too great. 

Besides, Thorin himself is getting better at curbing his temper. But it's still difficult for him, and those are difficult times... And the day comes when he calls Dwalin to his rooms, leans against the wall wearily and says: "I feel like shit. Make it only physical."

Dwalin remembered the humiliation of their last deal, how disdainful were Men at negotiations, how long and hard Thorin and Balin had to bargain to get at least something... When reason whispers "enough" Thorin is no longer propped against the wall but lies gasping on the floor.  
The face is intact, though.

"Was it too much?" Dwalin puts his arm around Thorin gently and helps him up.  
Thorin clutches his shoulder: "Just right," and smiles, and his eyes are wild and drunkenly happy. "And I'm ready for more."  
Dwalin wants to hit him again or at least to shake some sense into his friend, but then Thorin kisses him, and Dwalin kisses him back with sudden fervor, while his mind screams "Madness! It’s madness!"  
But it's Thorin.

* * *

Thorin sometimes calls him, sometimes comes himself, and always asks for the same thing. And sometimes it makes Dwalin uneasy: two kings in their line already lost to madness, and now the third one is seeking Mahal knows what. 

And what about Dwalin himself... He’s of the same lineage, even if relation is distant. And it’s Thorin who fires his passion to guard and own, passion lying deep in the heart of every dwarf.

But how he can both cherish his treasure and fuck it up on first request – well, he tries not to think about it.

Until he passes by a Men’s town where they hold trial over a merchant who tortured his maids. Dwalin doesn’t like gossip, but here he asks for details. He gets them in the first pub he stumbles into: the merchant tormented women for pleasure, what a horrid filthy beast he was and surely you couldn’t find this kind of scum among other free folk. He gets drawn into the talk and tells the absolute truth: dwarves would tear apart anyone who would harm a woman, so things like this are impossible among his people. 

But this story eats at him for many days after, and when he gets back to the Blue Mountains he is in such rotten mood, that the first chance he gets with Thorin alone, he asks "can you be really nasty to me."

Thorin looks at him with lazy contempt. "In two days I need to go to a meeting with Dain." His voice is dripping with contempt too. "Can I trust you’d be sensible enough to NOT ruin my trip?"

Dwalin stays sensible… barely. Afterwards he checks Thorin for broken ribs and tells him about the Men’s town and the merchant.

"Do I look like a helpless human maiden?" asks Thorin. "Dwalin, I can stop you if I want."

Dwalin checks him out, lingering on hard muscles covered in scars of various ages, looks into his now sober and sure eyes – even naked and beat up, Thorin is every inch the King, satisfied, calm, superior. And THAT restrains better than brute force or skill of a warrior.

"If you’d ever want to do it yourself…"  
"Dwalin, if I want to hit you," Thorin looks down "I’ll use words."

* * *

But Dwalin does eventually go too far. It’s Azanulbizar anniversary, they both drink too much, and Thorin’s ability to infuriate a fellow with just looks and gestures, let alone insults, is always with him - as well as Dwalin’s knuckle-dusters, which he forgets to take off.

The result is exactly what can be expected: even orcs would be proud.

Reason and conscience tell Dwalin that he needs to get Thorin to the healers immediately and give himself up to the guards. But he can’t. Because how he would explain what happened: just tell the truth? Rejoice, Durin's folk, your third king in a row is bat-shit crazy - not from gold this time, but from some bloke’s cock and iron fist. Or maybe say that they got drunk and got in a fight? That’s even worse – Dwalin isn’t afraid to face the punishment, but a king who can be beaten half to death without ever hitting back can’t be a king, can’t be a leader to warriors.

So Dwalin can only hope that his own help would suffice. He tries to revive Thorin, holds him while he vomits his insides out - is it concussion or some internal damage? Oh Mahal, please, please let it just be concussion - yes, it must be, didn't he bang Thorin’s head against the bench, and then on the floor? He undresses Thorin, washes the blood off. Some cuts need stitches but Thorin is so weak he doesn't even swear, just responds to Dwalin's commands, endures silently and passes out again on a third stitch.

Dwalin finishes his work and smashes the corner of a stone table on his fist.

Yes, they messed up badly, but it's too late to beat themselves over it... One has already been beaten enough, there he is, his royal pain in the butt...

Red marks on pale white skin, wet curls are blacker than usual, except for a streak of gray hair - when has Thorin got it? This year or year before? He needs to get married, but it's too late now, he wouldn't be convinced. And Dwalin himself won't allow it, won't let anyone else have him, and won't let Thorin to push him away. 

But they need to stop these sessions. Enough.

"Hey." Thorin opens his eyes just in time. "Is it bad?"  
Dwalin winces: who should be asking whom?  
"You alive?"  
"Yeah," eyelashes flatter down for a moment. How terrible he must be feeling now… "Thanks."  
"For what?! For almost killing you?"  
Thorin smiles with an effort. "But you didn’t," and even behind this half-smile you could feel the familiar challenge, that trademark obstinacy of a Durin's heir.  
"Thorin, we need to stop these games. It went too far."  
"Up balrog's ass." Of course he argues, if he can talk he’ll talk back. "Today everyone's out cold, tomorrow everyone will be hangover - when else can we allow it..."

Dwalin can't listen any more.  
 _Allow it. Allow it!_  
So this is what Thorin always wanted? This ugly drunken brawl, hair wrapped around Dwalin's fist, smashed insides and taste of blood? Humiliation and helplessness? Dwalin is used to think of himself as a cruel brute, but he can't accept that this... this filth is touching his King. Thorin can't desire this. He must not be himself, probably delirious. Or maybe Dwalin didn't understand him.

"Meaning, you'd want to repeat this?" he tries for clarification.  
Thorin shakes his head with eyes closed, but his answer doesn't make Dwalin happy.  
"Not in a couple of months. Too much work."  
"Ah, so it's work."  
"Yeah. Work. Travel. Maybe battles. I need to be presentable to people. And you are too good at maiming and killing."

Dwalin would never think that his King's soft, almost apologetic smile would scare him so much.  
"Is that what you want, Thorin? Death? To be killed?"  
"No. Why?" Thorin looks genuinely surprised.  
Whew. That’s better. "Then punishment?" Dwalin continues his interrogation. "Feeling guilty for something?"  
"No…"  
"Then what do you want?"

Thorin thinks. For a long time, but Dwalin isn't going to hurry him.  
Finally he gets an answer.

"Just pain. Stunning, vivid. With aftertaste, which stays with you for a while, reminds you of good things," Thorin looks into the smooth stone ceiling as if it's full of stars and precious jewels "makes you feel it again, feel it with your flesh... So safe..." he catches his breath and looks Dwalin straight in the eye. "I need pain from YOU."

And what can you say to that? Nothing. Dwalin silently drops his forehead on Thorin's shoulder.  
"Thorin, we’re doing it wrong."

* * *

Dwalin does it right in about a month - pulls a belt from his pants and shoves it under the King's nose.  
"Here. One more word, and I'll give you enough of "just pain" with grrreat aftertaste! Do you want it?" 

Thorin looks at him with such an expression that Dwalin wants either to laugh out loud, or pull his braids.  
Then Thorin blinks and bursts into a long speech in Khuzdul, which meaning winds down to "Why didn't you think about this before?!"

"Strip."

* * *

Two years later, when passing a not so nice human town, they find themselves stuck in a crowd watching public whipping of a criminal. A Man is howling under a whip while the crowd murmurs with every blow. Dwalin notices that something isn't right when he sees Thorin looking at it as if in a trance. Dwalin shakes him by the shoulder:

"Are you all right?"  
"Brilliant!" wild light in his eyes makes Dwalin suspect another name for this condition. "Learn this skill for me."  
"Whoa, you sure? Maybe a crop will do?"  
"No. Dwalin, I want THIS!"

And Dwalin stays in the town after their party moves on, and against all traditions human and dwarvish he convinces the executioner to take him as an apprentice, doesn’t let himself think about what it does to his honor of a warrior, and learns to use the whip.

"It was worth it," he thinks half a year later, when Thorin sinks down the wall after only the fourth blow.  
"Told you so," Dwalin catches him, pulls close and looks him in the face, "this is not a belt."  
Thorin leans his head on Dwalin's shoulder. "This is incredible!" His bare back touches a buckle on Dwalin's chest, he shudders, his eyes cloud over, and he pulls Dwalin in for a kiss.

The whip is forgotten - for today. And becomes their favorite toy for many years to come.

* * *

Those years prove to be golden – their Blue Mountains colony thrives, respect for Thorin and his leadership grows, Dis marries and becomes a mother to two wonderful princes… The problem with heirs is solved meaning Thorin doesn’t have to worry about his own marriage. His temper softens so much that he even, sometimes, graces his subjects with a smile. 

Usually when the nephews are nearby, but even then it's not for certain.

Still, smiles make him so handsome that some impressionable young lasses start whispering "What a great king he is and what a great husband he’d make - so sweet and caring!"

Such talk only makes Dwalin snort into his beard. Sweet, huh. Sweet - when exquisite taunts and dirty promises are whispered into his orc-eaten ear, sweet - when strands of dark hair caress his shoulder, when kisses are like bites and when fingers stroke a handle of the whip.

Dwalin is sweet himself when he unhurriedly changes the pattern and rhythm of the blows, he's caring when tying Thorin's hands to a ring or a stake, and even more caring when he puts a cooling ointment on whip marks... Only to slap Thorin's butt a moment later and promise to bang him without mercy if he keeps up being a dick, and to make good on the promise when Thorin immediately rubs in who wears the crown around here. To wind the dark mane on his fist and throw its owner to his knees, clamp his mouth to stifle the fresh taunt and jerk the bitten hand away... 

Oh yes, the King would make such a great husband. For sure.

And Dwalin too - he's renowned for being a calm, stoic, dispassionate dwarf, paragon of loyalty and a pinnacle of reliability. And for a good reason - after so many years with Thorin nothing can faze him anymore. He can hear comments on his lineage and don't kill, hear same comments and don't laugh when they go up the family tree till their common ancestor. He doesn't recoil in horror after untying half-conscious King and learning of tomorrow's delegation. And doesn't dream of wringing some necks when the next day the King doesn’t in any way show that his back is decorated with welts.

He can agree with both Thorin and Balin when, thrice or twice every year, they discuss going back to Erebor, can stop thinking on how easily Thorin risks himself, how ruthlessly he rushes into danger if it gets him what he wants. And how hard it is to explain to him that the same goal can be achieved with less pain and trouble.

He can even let his King, who can get lost in his own yard, to wander alone in unfamiliar Shire.  
He can refrain from calling the wizard Bad News for dragging Thorin into this adventure.  
And can refrain from thinking that their golden years have ended.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2.1**

When Great Goblin chooses the youngest for his torturers, Thorin pushes Ori and Kili behind his back. “What, you can only deal with little boys?” his voice is full of maddening mix of scorn and provocation making Dwalin’s fists curl and balls twitch. “Can you make ME scream?”

Goblin-king catches Dwarf-king’s stare and gets so delighted that Dwalin sighs inwardly: two lonely hearts found each other…

But Thorin, with their many years of experience, can hold out for longer than any of them. Through the dance of recognizing him for who he is, through familiar humiliating passages about a king-with-no-mountain, through excited promise to even wait with the bone-breaker on such a valuable prisoner, he goes forward, majestically shakes his mane, and throws his coat off with a flair just when they bark “strip him”. Unspoken “hands off” is displayed in his posture, in his look, and it stops the goblin filth, while Great Goblin is caught in a spectacle, in a show. And Dwalin suppresses pangs of jealousy, taking note of where Thorin throws vambraces, armor, and shirt, and watches when he is tied to a rack studded with short spikes…

When a specially trained goblin shows up with a cat-o-nine tails, Dwalin only shakes his head skeptically. _Ooh, that’d scare him._

Without further ado the goblin raises his arm and the lash whistles down. The reaction comes from everyone in the company except Thorin. It’s hard not to react when your King is being tormented. Even though the King, ignoring curses and gasps of his subjects, only tenses and shrugs with annoyance.

Second blow, then the third. Thorin is standing firm like a stone and makes about that much sound. Forth blow, then more and more. Thorin shakes his head like a pony chasing flies away.  
“Don’t like it?” Great Goblin asks with mock sympathy. Thorin looks at him like at a very big pile of shit. The giant scumbag claps his hands with glee “Let’s add some iron!” and a simple cat-o-nine is replaced with the one with iron tips.

Dwalin tries to guess whether the Great Goblin wants to fuck Thorin up like he’d want in his place. And whether the executioner wants that too…  
Seeing the ferocity of blows – yes, he definitely wants it.

But it’s difficult to get even an extra sigh out of Thorin. In all the years of their experiments he never agreed to a gag, and he never revealed their games with a loud moan or cry. He needed to talk back like he needed air, and the ability to listen to his orders was always worth the risk. And now this practice pays off - in carefully controlled breaths, in firmly clenched teeth and small splatters of blood from under each iron claw… Dwalin imagines it rather than sees it in the dim torchlight, and hears the sound of grinding teeth, realizing that it’s him, that he can’t watch it quietly anymore. Kili is breathing heavily nearby, and behind him Bofur is cursing softly.

Thorin jerks under another blow.   
_That’s bad._  
Dwalin knows too well what’ll happen next - he’d start to tremble, which would only intensify the feeling, and he’d react to pain with his whole body, pull away, cling to the rack… And there’d be spikes, dozens of punctures in so sensitive chest and more loss of blood. And maybe from this, or from the blows, but Thorin would start to give in to pain, get giddy from sensations, lose control. Or, if he manages to keep the clear head, he’d suffer and get weak and pass out like a normal dwarf not touched by madness. 

Neither of those outcomes is particularly pleasant, but luckily Great Goblin notices Thorin’s reaction and stops the ordeal.  
“So? That’s more interesting, isn’t it?”  
Thorin glances back at the executioner and then at the huge Urukhai.   
“You are making a fool of yourself,” he says in a measured, soft voice “this is not serious.”  
Dwalin knows that it’s needed so that not to choke, to keep the voice from breaking, but to hear that soft, almost tender tone, so private and cozy, directed at the foul goblin…  
 _Stop it, Thorin, don’t provoke this filth…_  
But the accursed Urukhai picks up the game immediately. “Aww, such a picky trophy you are, such a serious prisoner, so hard to please.” He pushes away goblin-vermin with a lash, strokes Thorin’s hair with his disgusting warty paw, forces his head up to look at him “Why is it so, my yummy one?”

Dwalin can hardly suppress a growl when he hears Thorin’s answer.

“This is not Gundabad” he sneers nastily, so that Dwalin wants to punch him himself, just so he would stop it, stop asking for it, not here, not now.   
Not with these foul creatures around, not when the huge Urukhai throws him on the spikes, not in front of this howling crowd. But Thorin finishes, as if he doesn’t hear the shouts and doesn’t feel the pain.   
“This is just pathetic.”

You have to be a King Under the Mountain to taunt someone who could kill you on a whim – or a complete nutter, which is close enough.  
But it seems the Great Goblin likes it, and gets mad at the same time. Dwalin understands him perfectly, and it makes him even more furious. “Fucking bastard…” he hisses, but then catches his brother looking at him anxiously and shuts it.

Meanwhile they exchange cat-o-nine for a long whip – the prisoner wants Gundabad, he’ll get it…  
 _Mahal, no…_  
It’s so easy for a good executioner to flog someone to death. You can crash a Man’s spine in two-three blows, or a Dwarf’s in five-six, can burst internal organs, can flay skin from the back strip by strip. If this whip-master knows his business, Thorin won’t get out of here alive.

And Dwalin won’t too. Because no one can beat Thorin – except him.   
But this bastard dares, this bastard strikes.  
Not too hard though. And safe enough – just around the ribs.  
“That’s it?” Thorin is not impressed.  
Good, good, just keep it like this…

Whip-master strikes harder, and only after a minute Thorin manages to squeeze out, with difficulty: “If you can’t do it, why bother.” The next blow throws Thorin on the rack.

The world goes red.  
 _Thorin._  
 _Treasure of my heart._  
 _The one and only._  
 _Mine, only mine._  
 _Nobody can touch him._  
 _Nobody can harm him._  
 _Nobody…_

Dwalin growls and curses in Khuzdul, somehow shakes his guards off, and then Fili and Nori are holding on to him so that he won’t rush at the executioner, while the Goblin-king watches the scene with great interest and delight.  
“Aww, look at your subjects worrying about you, it’s so sweet.” He even dances a little.  
“My subjects” Thorin throws out “are at least not as clumsy as your executioner.”  
The Urukhai stops mid-dance with one foot in the air. “Whoa. Fascinating.”

And Dwalin breathes out, calming down as quickly as losing it before.  
 _In the name of our forefathers, Thorin, I hope you know what you’re doing._

Thorin knows.  
Only now.  
Right after his last words.  
He couldn’t understand whether he knew, when it started, how it would end. Whether he knew the goal, and the means, the price that would be paid.  
 _He guarded your good name for hundred years. You’ll destroy his reputation in a pair of blows._  
What he’s doing now - is it irresponsible, or vile, or both?  
Thorin feels shittier than ever.  
 _Of course it’s both, oh great King Under the Mountain. Of course it’s both._  
Thorin laughs a short laugh – vicious, scornful, defiant.

“Bring me this one – the bald one!” Goblin-king, deeply offended, thrusts gnarly finger at Dwalin. “Let’s see what your dwarves are capable of”.

Dwalin is lead to the front. The Urukhai gives him a whip and dramatically sweeps his arm towards Thorin. “I’ve heard you are all loyal. All full of principles and notions and such. Strike him or die.”  
 _All right…_  
Thorin looks at Dwalin over the shoulder, meets his eyes, and Dwalin can almost hear his King’s voice, triumphant and taunting. “Yes, yes, yes! Give him the weapon, just give it, give it!”  
Dwalin doesn’t need elaborate instructions. 

He’s bad at pretending, but he puts on the best show when he takes the whip with disgust, turns it around in his hands, glares balefully at the Great Goblin. The giant slug gives him filthy, mocking smile, and with a clownish bow invites Dwalin to begin.

Dwalin is fed up with games and turns to Thorin, calm and unhurried as usual.

The first teasing blow just strokes Thorin’s already cruelly lacerated back, making him hiss and arch his body.  
The second blow throws Thorin on the rack and finally draws the long-awaited moan out of him, making the goblins and their leader gasp in unison.  
Thorin throws his head back - lashes flatter down, perfect profile twists in pain, a strand of hair falls over the shoulder…

It’s a spectacle. Working the crowd. And this crowd is full of connoisseurs – who will realize very soon that such beautiful skill with a whip doesn’t come without schooling. Forget it – any skill with a whip doesn’t come without schooling. And what one can do with schooling… The understanding dawns on the Great Goblin’s mug, but he doesn’t have time to react.

Dwalin’s third blow is swift and sharp – “get ready!” and with the fourth Dwalin sweeps two goblin guards, who were fatally unable to take eyes off his King, right off the platform. He’s a warrior, not an executioner. He can’t hide his prowess with a whip, but it’s not needed anymore: attention was attracted and diverted, chance created and used.  
He whips crooked blades out of warty hands, throws his enemies off, shouts “Come on Khazad!” and catches an axe thrown by Bofur.  
He cuts the binds tying Thorin’s hands to the rack, allows himself just a second to squeeze Thorin’s shoulder, to make sure he can stand on his own, and then there’s no time for anything but the fight.

Dwarves grab their weapons and things and pass them around while fighting off goblins. There are flashes of light on the platform, bright as the sun – it must be Orkrist, meaning Thorin is armed. Half-naked and bloody, he rushes into the battle in his usual manner, not thinking about defense, laughing ferociously, swiping the Great Goblin off the platform, shaking his dark mane, turning around in search of a new enemy…  
With no shield, no armor, no leather or fur to keep swords and arrows away.  
Dwalin fights his way through to him, to protect him, to shield with his own body, to push him into the middle of non-existent ranks…

And at this moment the cavern bursts in the flash of blinding white light.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 2.2**

A wizard is never late, nor is he early.   
He arrives precisely when he means to.

Thorin wonders, very much, why couldn’t the wizard mean to arrive _before_ Dwalin had to demonstrate this shameful skill, shameful for both a warrior and a dwarf.  
But he has no time to dwell on it.

Meanwhile, Dwalin wonders about one thing only: how to stuff his personal pain in the butt back into armor before goblins wake up again. But Thorin, instead of using this precious break, just stands still and stares at Gandalf with a strange, unreadable look. Is he stunned or what? Even more reason to cover him up as soon as possible, while the lucky break (thank you Gandalf!) lasts.  
“Wake up!” Dwalin throws him a shirt. “Put it on, quick!”

Thorin stirs and begins to move.  
Shirt. Underarmour. Mail. One smallish goblin tries to rise, gets a kick in the head with an iron boot and goes back down again.   
Thorin hisses quietly while buckling his belt. Dwalin tries not to think on how it must be hurting, and how the clothes will stick to fresh blood. But it’s better to tear it off live than to pluck arrows from the dead…  
One arrow whizzes by as if on cue, glancing off a scale on Thorin’s mailshirt.

And the time is running out. Goblins are rising up one by one, and there are more of them standing now than the dwarves. Bombur’s kitchen gear is passed one way, Gloin’s blanket – the other. After they lost their ponies they can’t afford to lose any more of their equipment.

Vambraces. Coat – one more layer of metal sewn into lining. One more layer or protection, so important now, when the wounds will be slowing Thorin’s reaction and pending, even slightly, his movements.

Kili is given his bow and quiver, Thorin – his shield. Ori quickly slings the bag with drawings over his shoulder.  
And dwarves start to run, and fight. They split into two groups – one is with Gandalf, another with Dwalin. Dwalin even has time to be glad that Thorin is kept behind Gandalf’s back, but Thorin, even from behind, still finds enough enemies to slash and chop, he’s exilarated from the fight, tries to break forward…

_Freaking berserk. He’ll crash later. Right when battle fury wears off. He’ll crash._

Then groups merge, and Dwalin finally can take his usual place, to feel the King with his body, in movement of the air, to see, hear and protect him as is his due.  
But it’s over soon – they fall, and jump, then Gandalf kills the Urukhai before dwarves could get to him, then they fall again, and they are almost free.  
The narrow passage, the sunlight, the mountainside – and they are fully free at last.

Thorin looks around. The wizard is counting everybody. Aloud.

_Why? Everyone’s here._ Dwalin’s eyes find his brother, he hears the princes, sees the cousins. Three from Moria are still running, and their own three are hugging each other, and Dori is already trying to rush towards the King…

“Where’s the hobbit?!”  
Thorin flinches.  
They lost him.  
Of course, they don’t feel the Halfling with their core like they feel each other. Nor his presense, nor his absense.

Dwalin isn’t interested in the ensuing blame game – pointing fingers won’t bring the hobbit back. What’s important is Gandalf’s and Thorin’s reaction. And Thorin is hurt and upset by this – and also angry, which is good, for him. But the appearance of Baggins, his miraculous escape and his irate, but heartfelt speech wipe out Thorin’s anger without a trace. And Dwalin wants to hit the poor Hobbit who hasn’t done anything wrong, except everyone waits for an answer from Thorin, and Thorin just stands still, leaning heavily on his sword.

Too heavily, and for too long.

And when they hear the familiar hateful howls from the mountain pass, there’s anguish in his face, visible to everyone, even if for a moment.  
 _Thorin, just hold on, please…_

* * *

“Just hold on,” terror and despair scream in his mind while Dwalin tries to see Thorin’s body in eagle’s talons, in the dark of the night “please just be alive.”  
“Hey, don’t pinch my feathers!” says the eagle suddenly, and Dwalin almost falls off in surprise.   
Mumbles apologies.  
And then asks, grasping at the chance.  
“You can see in the dark, is that right, savior? Could you please tell me, how is my King?”

The eagle answers almost at once but the heart still skips a couple of beats.  
“He breathes. He’s alive.”  
Alive.  
“Thank you.”  
Alive.  
Alive.

* * *

Even more beautiful than sunrise over the Lonely Mountain is Thorin standing in this sunrise. Alive.

Worn and pale, with raspy voice and with eyes so happy and vulnerable as Dwalin have never seen before.  
But his gaze turns steely the moment he turns away from Erebor.  
“We need to get moving.”

Gandalf gently puts an arm around Thorin’s shoulders, and Dwalin involuntarily tenses up, even though the wizard just…  
“Thorin, you were half-way to the Halls of Waiting when I called you back.”  
Mahal be blessed! So that’s what the wizard was doing with those whisperings of his?  
“You won’t manage the march, and we need to treat your wounds.”

“Do you see a place to camp here? Firewood, water? We have to go” Thorin circles around the wizard and looks the company over “till the first suitable place… Anyone’s hurt, wounded?”

Compared to Thorin, they are more than all right. And who would complain anyway, when even the King himself won’t rest.  
Dwalin thinks for a moment whom Gandalf’s words about Thorin were really meant for, then answers for everybody: “Let’s go.”

* * *

"I forgot to ask - how did we get here?" Thorin says suddenly and slows down.  
They are doing the fifth bend on the road winding around the cliff, the road that started wide with solid steps and then deteriorated into a mountain path difficult even for a dwarf to travel. Dwalin would prefer his friend to save his breath, but alas.

"Eagles brought us".  
"Eagles"? Thorin repeats in surprise and stumbles. Dwalin catches him by the shoulder and holds for a bit longer than necessary.  
"What do you remember last?"  
"The Halfling. Suicidal fool." _Look who's talking._  
"Fili and Kili ran after him. The rest were stuck in that cursed tree."  
"I heard your cry..." Thorin strains to remember, and also unknowingly trails the rocky wall with his hand, and Dwalin doesn't like it one bit.  
"The branch broke off."  
Thorin whirls around sharply, and Dwalin catches him before realizing that he's not falling.  
"And you?!"  
"I managed to hold on" and also managed to be too late to cover his friend's back. And now he has to answer obvious questions, obvious because he's standing right here. "Watch your feet." 

"We'll check the way" Bofur and Nori pass them by, looking away tactfully and staying few steps ahead.  
Dwarves can be discreet, and can protect you without intrusion.

Thorin only nods.  
"All right. And then what happened?"  
"And then we fought them off until the eagles came and threw them around like puppies. They hurtled orcs down and took us, and you."  
"I... see..." suddenly Thorin's face turns ashen, he gasps and tries to hold on to Dwalin but his fingers loosen their grasp, and now it's time to catch him for real.  
"Thorin!"  
But the King’s eyes are glassy and he only manages a groan for an answer. Dwalin leans him against the rock and barks to Fili who magically appears next to them "Keep going. We'll catch up with you."  
Thorin shudders, trying to stay on the brink of consciousness, and dwarves linger in concern, but Dwalin snarls to them "Go!" and shakes off his knuckles. He just can't strike this torn, raw face with metal on his hand.

Two slaps later Thorin groans and tries to turn his head away, and by that time they are alone on the path, finally. Now Dwalin can freely hug his King, allowing him to sink to the ground and sitting down with him.  
"Do you hear me?"  
"Yes..." Thorin is shaking, and it's all right, what's worse is that there’s no way to lay him down without causing unnecessary pain.  
Wouldn't be the first time though, and Thorin, in a familiar way, drops his head on Dwalin's shoulder, leaning on him with his side. "And we are?"  
"Alone. I sent everyone away."  
"And they listened?"  
Dwalin snorts. "They respect your pride."

Thorin sighs and closes his eyes. Just a couple of minutes for queasiness and shaking to lessen, but he doesn’t wait long.  
"They respect it now. But you do understand that later they'll start asking questions?"  
"You are the King. You gave yourself up twice for us, and paid in full. That would excuse anything."  
"I wish." Thorin raises his head, and his eyes are absolutely clear and stern now "I brought trouble on you, as well."  
Dwalin shrugs. As if they had a choice.  
"I'll deal with it, don't worry."

Thorin jerks away and looks at him with sudden fury. "No!"   
It would be better if he weren't gasping for breath. But Dwalin's breath catches too when Thorin looks at him like _this_.   
"Leave it to me! I’ve risked it, and I'll answer for it. For both of us."  
"Thorin, you shouldn't..." go pale and fall on him again, for sure. And he shouldn't be arguing too.  
"No, _you_ shouldn't. I need to do it myself, I physically need it."  
Physically, huh... But knowing King's quirks, it may not be far from the truth.  
"Just lie still," grumbles Dwalin "breathe. We need to catch up with others, and you're barely alive."

Thorin gives a quiet chuckle ending in a cough."Then fix it."   
He pulls Dwalin close by his shoulder-belt, catching him in a kiss which tastes more of blood than of Thorin.  
 _Here and now? What kind of folly is this!_  
"Are you mad?" Dwalin tries to pull away.  
Thorin, eyes still closed, shakes his head.  
"For me now, it's so bad it's almost good. Just make it really good, and we'll go."  
Dwalin sighs "but look, you’re hurt all over."  
"I just want this, nothing more."  
He's really mad...  
But alive!

Dwalin kisses him slowly and gently, and then helps him up.

* * *


End file.
